You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. Anyway...